


Maps & Atlases

by fifthnorthumberland



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Warning for brief mention of sex, happy domesticity in 221B Baker St.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fifthnorthumberland/pseuds/fifthnorthumberland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is alarmed for a fraction of a second because all his maps and atlases of John H. Watson are not complete and he needs more data, but then John’s eyes are on him and he knows that he’ll have other opportunities to gather this particular kind of data. Under John’s warm, caressing fingertips, he’s certain of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maps & Atlases

They’ve been in bed like this for hours. Sherlock is lying on his stomach, propped on his elbows, as his fingers hover over John’s skin. They have solved a case around noon, only two days after Lestrade had called upon them, and returned to the flat after some Thai food at John’s favourite down the road, both of them feeling quite self-satisfied. John had made sure that they’d not forget to save the innocent and Sherlock answered all of the questions Lestrade and the Yard didn’t even know they should have asked.

  
And so they went home and after John had laid down on the sofa, and Sherlock had followed him and made space for his tall self beside John on the couch, every inch of him in contact with John’s body, there only seemed to be one thing –or perhaps more than one- to do of the afternoon.

They'd eventually made it to Sherlock’s room and stayed there, spent, happy and lazy. It's incredibly domestic and slightly out of character, but it is lovely. Now Sherlock, as usual, has become inquisitive.

 

For the past hour or so, he’s been tracing maps and timelines all over John’s body. He’s figuring out, through scars and damages, tan lines and wrinkles, what John used to be before he met Sherlock.

 

There is, of course, the scar from the bullet that brought John back to England, which is perfect just as it is, but there is also a small white mark on John’s hip. It feels deep when Sherlock passes his finger over it. It’s perfectly smooth and healed, but it’s still there and Sherlock wants to, _needs_ to know how and why. John, obviously, obliges.

 

" There was this humongous tree in our yard when I was a kid. Harry was always climbing it to the very top and I couldn’t. I was scared but mostly I was too short.’’ Sherlock smiles at this, like he’s been reminded of something glorious. It’s mostly because he likes John’s height and likes to imagine him as a child. Sherlock doesn’t like children but John is a whole other story and there is no way that John could ever repulse Sherlock, ever. John continues.

" Anyway, one day, God knows what possessed me, but I decided I was going to climb that tree! And, of course, I fell. It’s a miracle I didn’t break anything, really.’’ John smiles at this, simply, remembering the past. Sherlock knows John is the kind of man who doesn’t cling to the past; he doesn’t keep pictures or any souvenir of his childhood or his ex-girlfriends or boyfriends or even of his time in Afghanistan. Sherlock couldn’t appreciate that more.

 

Sherlock stares, no, _gazes_ over John and John can’t help but feel ridiculous after a minute of direct eye contact. He smiles like he’s not sure of something and asks Sherlock;

" What are you thinking just now?’’

Sherlock’s smallish smile widens and he says;

" I love it.’’

" What, the scar?’’

" Yes.’’

And that’s exactly where it could all go wrong, where John could decide "I’m through with this nutter’’, but no. John looks at him. He looks at him like he’s the most precious thing in the universe and this isn’t a feeling Sherlock would be able to understand if it weren’t for the man sitting across him and his weary, beautiful, glowing face.

 

Simultaneously, they lean towards each other and their lips meet halfway. John has to level up with his elbows on the mattress but soon they switch positions and Sherlock is beneath John.

John is over him and there is nothing but his smell, his taste, his hair, his skin.

 

Sherlock moans into the kiss, low vibrations resonating from his chest through to John’s, just as John breaks the kiss. He stares at Sherlock, as if in disbelief.

 

" Sometimes you’re just… so much.’’ John says, his voice as calm and even as ever, but his eyes intent. That statement delights Sherlock. Because it’s just that. John is not too much, and he’s not all, there’s still _the work_ , but he’s there, and he is just so much…so many things to Sherlock. So many indefinable, non-chartable, precious, essential things to Sherlock, and Sherlock has managed not to scare him away, to keep him around despite everything.

 

They kiss again, slower, more tenderly this time. Sherlock can taste all the safety in John Watson in that kiss. He can determine, through tchai tea and whole milk and tooth-paste and saliva, that John is where he is. Solid. Secure.  That he could fall into him, dive and drown, and he wouldn’t be lost. It wouldn’t be a waste of time, ever, and he wouldn’t feel misplaced either. He coul keep doing the work, as John is and always was, from day one, part of _the work_. He wouldn’t have to change a thing. In fact, he doesn't. 

 

"This is _perfect._ ’’ he says softly as he parts from John, who looks a bit surprised and is chuckling.   

John settles beside Sherlock, faces him. He’s smiling _that_ smile, the genuinely happy one, that beautiful, glorious thing that marks the corner of his eyes and mouth as he ages. Sherlock brushes his thumb along the thin and almost deep lines ( _wrinkles_ , he refuses to call them) and wishes, secretly, to be there to see them again in 20, 40 years from now.

 

John breathes in deeply and sighs with contempt before saying; "Okay. My turn,’’ and looking expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock is alarmed for a fraction of a second because all his maps and atlases of one John H. Watson are not complete and he needs more data, but then John’s eyes are on him and he knows that he’ll have other opportunities to gather this particular kind of data. Under John’s warm, caressing fingertips, he’s certain of it.

 

John feels at one of his false ribs ( _costae spuriae),_ where he has no doubt spotted Sherlock’s injury (college years, a chase that cost him 6 weeks of total mobility) and Sherlock can only love him for that. Could John have been anything other than a doctor, if he is really meant for Sherlock, if he _fits_ with Sherlock? " _No,’’_ thinks Sherlock in a tone that sounds like he’s saying " _that’s ridiculous_ ’’.

 

He loves John for it and he loves John because he can see these things, can understand and he definitely shares the need to see them the same way Sherlock does.

 

So for now the cartography of this particular army doctor will have to wait. For now, Sherlock is busy adding an intersection to the mental map he has made of his own life. He mentally draws a dot where two lines meet and adds a tag that indicates, as you would at the corner of Melcombe and Baker street, "M.D. John H. Watson’’. 

 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Maps & Atlases is a band (http://www.myspace.com/mapsandatlases) which I recommend listening to, their song ''Solid Ground'' in particular.


End file.
